


I know there's better brothers (but you're the only one that's mine)

by pianoforeplay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-22
Updated: 2011-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoforeplay/pseuds/pianoforeplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's arms tighten around him for a minute and Dean finds his face smashed against his brother's shoulder, breathes in the wood and dirt and aftershave ingrained in the fabric, the scent that's meant brother and best friend and Sam for as long as he can remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I know there's better brothers (but you're the only one that's mine)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through episode 6.11. Obnoxiously long title stolen from the song "Brother" by Murder by Death. Initially posted [here](http://pianoforeplay.livejournal.com/45558.html) on 12/18/2010.

Mommy looks tired. Her hair, which is usually so straight and shiny and pretty, looks wild right now, all unbrushed and sticking to her cheeks and forehead. But she's smiling, almost glowing in the weird, bright hospital light. She's still so beautiful.

"You want to say hi to your new brother, Dean?" she asks, sounding even more tired than she looks.

Nodding, Dean steps closer, pushes up to his tip-toes to try and see over the bar on the edge of the bed. It doesn't really help; he's still too short.

"Here you go, buddy," his Daddy says then, pushing the chair up close and helping Dean climb up.

His Mommy smiles at him and then looks back down at the bundle of baby in her arms. Says, "This is Sammy."

Dean doesn't say anything at all, but he doesn't once look away from the baby's face. He's so small. Smaller even than Dean and Dean knows he's really small himself. He's still just a kid. Not big yet no matter how much he wishes to be.

But Sammy's a _baby_. And he looks so helpless, his tiny hands curled into tiny fists and tucked under his tiny chin. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open and he doesn't look like he's even breathing. Almost doesn't even look real.

"Go ahead," Daddy tells him, hand warm against Dean's back. "Say hi to your brother, Dean."

Dean swallows and lifts his hand, eyes darting to Mommy to make sure it's really okay for him to touch something so small, so breakable. Mommy just smiles right back, her head tilted to the side as she scoots little Sam closer. Slowly and very, very carefully, Dean touches the blanket wrapped around the baby's shoulders, follows the stitch of it down to one tiny fingertip.

"Hi," he says then, barely a whisper as Sammy's finger twitches and touches back, grey-blue eyes blinking up at Dean sleepily. "Hi, Sammy. I'm Dean. I'm your brother."

:::

Sam squeals happily when he falls, landing butt-first on the carpet and grinning up at Dean like it's the best thing ever.

Sighing and fighting a smile, Dean tugs his brother back to his unsteady feet. Says, "Okay, one more time. Come on, Sammy. I got you."

With another bright giggle, Sam lets Dean drag him upward and then leans forward, making Dean hold his weight before taking one shaky step forward.

"Good," Dean says, encouraging quietly as he takes his own answering step back. He tightens his hold only when Sam wobbles and leans inward, waits the few seconds for his brother to steady before gently guiding him into another step.

They make their way across the hotel room floor like that, slow and steady, Dean's smile growing wider with every step, more and more sure that Sammy's really got this down, that Dean's teaching him everything, just like a big brother should. Just like he promised.

But as soon as Dean lets go, Sammy sways and leans and falls right back down with yet another high-pitched shriek. He claps his chubby hands and then lifts his arms, grabbing for Dean with a delighted giggle.

Dean sighs and takes his brother's hands. Once more. For real this time.

:::

"But I don't wanna. I wanna go with _you_."

"I'm not gonna be far," Dean tells him, pointing down the hall. "Just around that corner, okay? You can come by whenever you want."

That last part is kind of a lie, though a small one. He hopes Sam doesn't pick up on it.

Sam's bottom lip juts out further as he crosses his arms over his chest and huffs. "This is _stupid_."

"Look, just give it a shot, okay? You might like it."

Sam answers by scrunching up his nose in obvious doubt and Dean sighs.

"C'mon, it's gonna be awesome," he says, reaching down to take his brother's hand and squeezing gently. "You get to play games and read and hang out with other kids who aren't me."

"But I don't _wanna_ hang out with kids who aren't you."

"And after," Dean says, ignoring the comment with growing frustration, "maybe Dad will take us out for ice cream."

It's another lie, but Dean's pretty sure that if he saves up his lunch money for a couple days he'll be able to come up with something by the end of the week. That should be good enough.

Sam gives another grunt, but Dean can tell he's finally starting to cave. Can see it in the fading crease in his brother's forehead and the twitch of his lips.

"Just try it," Dean says, squeezing Sam's hand once more. "One day. For me, okay? And if you don't like it, we'll do something else tomorrow."

That's the biggest lie of all, but it works. Sam chews at his bottom lip and then sighs, lips still tugged in a scowl as he grumbles, " _Fine_. But I want a triple scoop with lots and lots of chocolate."

Dean lets out a quiet breath, mild annoyance mixed with relief. "You got it, kiddo."

:::

" _Auughhh!! Uncle, uncle, UNCLE!_ "

Dean doesn't let up until Sam's practically screaming it and he isn't at all surprised by the sharp punch to the bicep he gets immediately after. Just laughs through the wince.

"You're a jerk!"

"Yeah, well you're a pussy."

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"Am _not_!"

"Then stop acting like one!"

Sam's lips curl at that, pure fury raging in his eyes as he heaves forward, harnesses all the power in his midget-sized frame to push Dean off and wrestle him to the ground, one knee knocking against Dean's ribs in the process. There's a sharp-edged rock digging into Dean's back and twigs in his hair and he's sore and sweaty all over, muscles aching.

He laughs, free and open, as his brother grabs his hands and holds him down, eyes dark and determined, lips stretched in a thin, hard line.

"You're not gonna be bigger than me forever, Dean," he says, glaring down at him.

Dean arches an eyebrow and shrugs. Plays it off like he doesn't care because he mostly doesn't, waits the point-three seconds for Sam to get distracted by his own frustrated indignation before seizing his opening. In seconds he has Sam flat on his back once more, along with a brand new gash on his elbow and a cut on his lip.

"May not be bigger, but I'm always gonna be better," he says, panting and laughing in equal amounts.

Beneath him, Sam is still fuming and struggling under the hold. Only stops when Dad yells for them from the back door.

And when Dean lets go to stand up and then offers a hand to help Sam to his feet, he's both surprised and oddly proud when Sam yanks him right back down to the ground and stomps off, not even looking back.

"There's hope for you yet, Sammy!" he calls out, laughing in the bed of leaves.

:::

Sam stands at the back of the line, backpack slung over one shoulder and over-sized duffel bag at his feet. Dean's right next to him, silent as the line moves in by inch, Sam dragging the duffel bag along the linoleum floor.

It still doesn't take them long to reach the door.

Dean stops a few feet away, watches as Sam hands off the duffel to the bus driver along with his ticket.

He half expects Sam to just keep going right there, just walk right on up and board his one-way trip west without so much as a glance back. He almost _wants_ that, in fact. If only to avoid the inevitable awkward goodbye.

But Sam turns to face him, one hand curled over the strap of his backpack. "So," he says, and takes a slow breath. "Uhm. I guess this is it."

Dean's been trying for weeks to prepare himself for this, but none of it's helped one bit. Dean's said a lot of goodbyes in his life, more than he could ever begin to count. Some have meant more than others; some have hurt more than others.

None of them have felt like a physical piece of himself being slowly ripped away.

Clearing his throat roughly, he looks away, frowning and fiercely fighting the sting of his eyes. "How, uh. How 'bout we skip the heart-to-heart, huh?"

Sam's lips twitch into his own frown, but he doesn't argue. Just gives a small, resigned nod and steps in, pulling Dean into a hug before Dean can even think to fend it off. Sam's grown five inches in the past year alone, stands taller than Dean now, toe-to-toe. Dean still has more muscle, still has the upperhand when it comes to sparring and wrestling and weaponry. Unlike Sam, he's had a few years to grow into his body. Sam's still all gawky limbs and hunched posture, trying to make himself look smaller simply because he doesn't know how to exist in a world where he's taller than the men around him.

He'll get there eventually, Dean knows that much. And though he'll never admit it, he absolutely hates the fact that he won't get to watch it happen.

Sam's arms tighten around him for a minute and Dean finds his face smashed against his brother's shoulder, breathes in the wood and dirt and aftershave ingrained in the fabric, the scent that's meant brother and best friend and _Sam_ for as long as he can remember. He pulls away when his eyes start to ache and his throat closes up, keeps one hand on Sam's upper arm as he digs a wad of tens and twenties from his coat pocket and shoves it into Sam's hand.

"What-- Dean. No."

"Shut up," Dean says, mentally cursing the tremble in his voice as he forcefully pushes the cash into Sam's palm. "Just take it. Use it on books or beer or porn or whatever the hell else you want. Just. Take it."

"I have a scholarship, Dean. I don't need it."

Dean's heard that already a hundred times now -- full tuition, room and board and meal plan, the very best the school has to offer for his stupid, over-sized, brainiac geek of a brother -- and he doesn't fucking _care_. He can't even explain why, but he needs Sam to accept it, all the cash Dean's managed to stash away since the second he heard the news.

Using his other hand, Dean curls Sam's fingers over the money and holds it there. He's shaking. He's sure Sam can feel it, too.

"Okay," Sam says a moment later, voice nearly a whisper. "Okay. Thanks. I'll, uh. Maybe I'll buy some phone cards with it or something."

Swallowing, Dean eases up a little and nods. "Sure," he says, finally relaxing as Sam pulls his arm back, slides the money safe into his coat pocket.

Three minutes later, Dean's still standing there, watching through a dirt-streaked window as the Greyhound growls to life and putters out of the station. He thinks he sees Sam wave to him, but he can't be certain. He doesn't wave back.

:::

Sam finds his way back a few years later. Or maybe it's Dean that finds his way to Sam, he isn't really sure. Figures it doesn't matter anyway.

What does matter is that they're together again. A team. Partners. They've both grown and they've both changed, but some things are still the same, some things are just like they've always been.

They fight together and bleed together. Mend gashes and wounds and broken bones. Sam breaks his wrist in Illinois and Dean patches him up, uses Google to help fashion a cast and Sam heals almost perfectly. They get lost in a couple mental institutions and run from the feds, wind up in handcuffs and behind bars more than a few times. They pull each other through muddy creeks and out of opened graves, share bathrooms and food and beds when they have to, share the weighted silence of too many regrets when they set their father's carcass on fire.

Sam dies in a field in Cold Oak, South Dakota and Dean sits next to the corpse for hours, days, years. He makes a deal. He knows better, but he does it anyway, and he's not there to hold his brother's hand when Sam comes to again.

He spends a year waiting to die. Sam never leaves him, never gives up.

He spends forty years in hell, forty years of unfathomable pain and unforgivable sin, and the burning grip of the thing that finally yanks him free is surprisingly unknown and unfamiliar.

But that itself is a comfort: it means Sam didn't do anything stupid. Sam is safe.

:::

When he watches his brother die for the second time, watches him fall into the gaping pit, watches him fucking _jump_ , Dean knows it's for good this time. No take-backs, no do-overs, no passing Go or collecting $200.

Dean dies right there with him, in the middle of an empty field in Lawrence, Kansas, mere miles from where it all started.

He dies and he starts over on empty. For a year, he makes good on a promise, and lives the ghost of a life he once tried to tell himself he wanted.

And then Sam finds his way back. Just as empty, it turns out. A ghost of himself. A twisted mockery.

Still, they work together again. Fight together and bleed together because Dean doesn't know anyway else to be. It's written into his very bone, surpassing every notion of destiny and freewill: stay with Sam, keep him safe. He wonders if it goes beyond even the idea of a soul, if he'd have the same detached, bone-chilling apathy as this new Sam if their positions were reversed. It doesn't feel possible.

That certainty to protect, to find his brother and make him whole again is still there even when Death thinks Dean has learned his lesson. It simmers just under the surface, damaged, but not broken.

The empty shell of his brother is strapped down in Bobby's panic room, each scream and desperate plea cutting through Dean like razorblades. It goes against everything in him to ignore it, hands curling into fists as he watches Sam writhe and struggle, angry and frightened.

"You don't know," Sam says, pure panic in his eyes when he looks to Dean. "You don't know what'll happen to me. Dean! _Please!_ "

Dean doesn't move. It takes everything in him, but he doesn't move. Not even when Sam's screams grow in intensity, not as he begs and pleads, shouts Dean's name over and over again in a tone Dean has made it a point to never hear ever. Not from his little brother.

Death holds Sam's soul in one fist, beams of light shining through the cracks of his feeble fingers, bright and uncontainable. It's beautiful and terrifying, a glowing ball of everything Sam has ever been and everything Dean has ever loved.

Sam screams when Death melds body and soul, screams like he's dying all over again, like he's being torn to shreds in the pits of hell, eviscerated from the inside out. He screams and screams and screams.

And then goes silent.

Bobby is the first to speak in the sudden quiet, his voice gruff. "The hell'd you do to him?" There's a worry in his tone that Dean's heard more often than he'd like to admit, but it's biting at the same time. Protective.

Death doesn't reply, simply closes his bag and, with one last look to Dean, disappears.

Dean can hear Bobby's ragged breaths in the silence and the pounding of his own heartbeat. From Sam, there's nothing at all. Nothing at all for a stretch of at least twenty seconds, maybe thirty. It feels like hours.

And then Sam coughs, sharp and pained. Sucks in a gulp of air and coughs again.

The first thing he says is Dean's name.

And there's something in his voice, something small and vulnerable and scared, something that reminds Dean of dirty diapers and skinned knees and melted crayons. Something that works its way into Dean's very marrow and sends him reeling, tells him beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is real. This is _Sam_. His brother. Damaged, but not broken.

Dropping to his knees, Dean unlocks one cuff with shaky fingers and holds on tight, brings dry knuckles to his lips and whispers against the lump in his throat and the wetness on his cheeks: "It's okay, Sam, I got you. It's me, man. I got you."

 

 **end.**


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